


The Abyss

by Active_Imagination



Category: The Following
Genre: POV First Person, season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-19
Updated: 2015-07-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 02:12:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4161744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Active_Imagination/pseuds/Active_Imagination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My vision of season 4a of The Following. There is a vigilante determined to stop Eliza and the evil organization she's a part of, but can he do that without succumbing to evil himself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Declaring War On An Evil Empire

**Author's Note:**

> This arc is inspired by my twitter roleplay of Ryan Hardy, @N0tHisHero. I have a few twists and turns plotted, but I am open to feedback.

I've been listening to the scanner a lot. 

It's overwhelming, and frustrating, what you can glean from a crackly voice, the words used to describe a scene or situation. My mind tries to piece what little information there is and recreate it in horrifying technicolor. It looks to the past, to the people involved, unsure of what is fact and what is experience, but usually the picture in my head matches the reality. 

And it's never a pretty picture.

There are so many crimes, and they're just the ones that are reported. I know there are so many that aren't, and they're the ones I want to deal with... but I don't know how. 

I know that Arthur Strauss had more students that he taught to kill without being caught, but Theo killed him, ensuring the safety of those students. Two are dead. Another is in prison, but I doubt he'd have any information to offer, even if I could get to him. Joe said that Strauss kept his students isolated. I doubt we'll ever learn all of Strauss' students. And that haunts me.

There is one student though. “Eliza”. I'm pretty sure that's an alias. I barely know anything about her, just that she's wealthy and powerful and part of an organization that deals in catering to the sadistic and depraved desires of the rich. They think their money can keep them safe, and maybe it has been able to buy off the FBI, but I can not be bought. I will not be swayed.

I thought I could have a life, once. When Gwen told me she was pregnant, I thought that was what I needed to be able to kick the booze and settle down. But the Bad Guys wouldn't let me. My family and my friends are never safe, not while I'm still alive. I am the enemy to all things evil, or at least, that's the story I want to be. I don't want to put anybody else in danger.

This is the way it has to be. In death, I am alone. Well, mostly. Tyson is my best friend. He trusted me, after he had to fake his death due to a certain crime syndicate. He was so grateful to see me alive, and I'm not sure why. Makes me feel guilty, but he'll understand, right? He knows me, he knows who I am, what I do.

After I die, he'll get an email listing what I died for, all the intel on all the killers I'm aware of. I've accepted my death, but not until I've blown Eliza's organization wide open, exposed all the perversion so it can't hide in the darkness any more. I'm prepared to die as long as I see just a bit of justice in this world, and if I can't, I trust that Tyson will. 

My mind drifts, sometimes, as I listen to the scanner. I shouldn't let it, but listening to tales of death makes me pensive about my life, my lack of life. It's a complicated relationship, but I do have a lot of respect for life, although not my own. Mine seems to be a curse, mocking me as other people are hurt, as others die, and I'm too late to save them.

The scanner tells me of the lives lost, but I'm not listening just to torture myself. The location of a body screams out at me, alarms blaring inside my head, making my heart race faster. There's a pattern emerging, of immigrants turning up dead, washed up on shore, body dumps that are carefully scattered to avoid their origin, but highlight it by absence. There's a shipping yard that I have to investigate. 

So I do, but I'm always too late. There are so many containers, I lose track of time as I search them all, but I finally find one, empty except for human waste. There's a stuffed toy rabbit discarded on the floor too, and I'm sick, throwing up what little is in my stomach until I'm dry heaving, feeling weak from the stench and the exertion and just the implication, the idea of who this bunny belonged to, of what Eliza's organization is doing to them now.

I don't feel any less sick when I get out of the container, taking the bunny with me as a reminder. I know how to cover my tracks, and the yard is so woefully understaffed that I'm not even sure if they're corrupt or just inept, but I am able to find out who the container belongs to. A dummy corporation, no doubt, but the name is tied to another delivery arriving soon. 

Next time, I'll be ready. 

Until then, I'm going to find some place to drink while I plan a war.


	2. One Life to Save Many

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's an easy choice, when the life you're sacrificing is your own.

In my mind, I'm already dead, but I want my death to matter. If I fall at the first hurdle, well, this is a hurdle worth falling at. 

It's noisy at the docks, but that provides cover to let me wander unnoticed. There's a fleet of vans driving up to the containers, their missing registration plates highlighting their illegal mission, making easy targets to follow. It still doesn't prepare me for the size of the operation. 

Even from a distance I almost gag on the stench as soon as one of the containers is opened. No wonder people have turned up dead. It's worse than a cattle market. How anybody can treat humans like that is... it's beyond me. But it's not. I know they don't see them as people. But I do.

There are kids among them. Whole families, clinging to one another but being forced into separate vehicles. There are guns and tears and blood and fear and aggression and I can smell it all and for a moment, I'm frozen by it. 

There's a burner phone in my pocket, and I find myself reaching for it. I was wrong to think I could do this alone, but at the same time I don't have any choice. I don't even call the FBI, leaving a text instead, with just the address, and a name. I'm not sure how much attention the name of a dead psychopath who trained killers will get, but if it gets to Mendez I'm hoping she'll be smart enough to send everybody, armed. 

So many vans drive away, and I just watch it happen. I feel sick again, but it's not until I am, until I've thrown up all the alcohol that's in my stomach, that I find I can actually move, spurred into action. There's still a shipping container that hasn't been opened yet, and I can hear the sobs and yells from inside.

The Bad Guys, easy to spot with their guns and muscles and vacant stares, they're busy and it's almost too easy to get to the container and open it up. The people pour out, spilling onto the floor where they are trampled over as others try to run but they don't know where they're going and I don't know how to explain. It's chaos, and I can hear gunshots but it's too crowded to see. 

Whilst others flee from the gunshots, running back inside the container, I start making my way towards the sound, fighting through a sea of bodies just to get to that sound. But what I see, it almost makes me freeze again. 

There's a little girl, crying as she clings to the body of a woman. The woman barely looks human, a bullet having torn through her skull, blood coating her face. No child should have to see that, but the guy who did it has a gun pointed at the little girl, and I jump into action.

I grab the little girl, my hand on her arm is so rough it will probably bruise but I don't know how to apologize, but there's still the stuffed rabbit in my pocket from the last kid I failed to save, so I shove it into her hand and push her aside, away from the bad men. They shoot at her, but she's fast and smart, running away as fast as I can. I have to hope she's safe.

Nobody will be safe, not while these goons still have their guns. I lock eyes with the man who fired the shot, and something takes over me. I start running towards him, not flinching as he shoots. A bullet grazes my arm, making me spin, but I correct my path and keep heading straight towards him, punching him out. 

The man drops to the floor like a bag of wet cement, and I take his gun. It's a cheap Ruger, 9mm semi, and it feels wrong in my hands. I'd much prefer a Glock, but it's still a gun and I could end his life with it, but I don't. He's down, and I put a bullet in his kneecap to make sure he stays down. There's other guys with guns I need to take care of.

I try to aim for the knees, but it is so chaotic that I'm just shooting to stop the shooting, and I have to be careful not to hit any of the poor people shipped here like they were things. It's not always easy to get a clean shot, but I keep the gun in my hand as I get closer the the bad guys, close enough to get one in a choke-hold, using him as a human shield. I'm not the one who killed him. Right?

The fight isn't over yet, and adrenaline is keeping me going but my arm is still bleeding and I can feel the exhaustion creeping in. I'm slower, sloppier, but it doesn't matter. I'm just a distraction whilst the innocent flee. I'm certainly attracting the bad guys. 

A beam of light hits me, blinding me and the grunts that have their hands on me. It takes me longer than it should to realize that it's a helicopter, and then I can hear the sirens. It's so noisy, but I can make out the sirens and the yells, the gunfire and the shouts, but mostly I hear hope. It's faint, but I can hear the sound of officers trying to comfort the scared, innocent souls that were shipped here.

I'm not sure but I think I hear Mendez's voice, and that makes me smile. So commanding, but still expressing compassion to the innocent, and dominating the guilty. The voice of justice. I hope that little girl finds her, Mendez is so good with kids. But that little girl has seen my face, and Mendez thinks I'm dead. 

With that distracted thought, I never saw the whack to my head coming. I black out whilst being moved by the goons, but my last thought is a happy one. 

They're safe.


	3. Pain Passes The Time (but it would have passed any way)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing like pain to regress a man back to his childhood, right? aka, the flashback chapter.

Pain drags me back to consciousness, waking me up in a way that demands my attention. 

It hurts to open my eyes, and even then I can't see anything, nothing beyond the sparks going off inside my skull, flashes of pain that are frustratingly disorienting, sending me spiraling to my childhood, with memories that cut into the present day like spliced film. 

I'm no stranger to taking a punch. Small fists punching me until I cry, but I never did. Not while I was awake. And I can't cry now, either.

I cling to the pain, knowing the more it hurts the more awake I am, and I have to be awake in order to assess, in order to see the situation, even if it's not visually.

Past the throbbing of blood in my ears, I can hear... is that two other men? The scuff of shoes on a metal floor indicates that one man is pacing. There's the sound of knives sharpening, and that doesn't move, so yeah, there's at least two other guys here, wherever here is.

I'm guessing it's some kind of container or cage. I can't hear the sound of the docks outside, so it's likely I've been moved. I should probably concentrate on myself rather than my location. I'm tied to a chair by my ankles and wrists, not by rope, or tape. Something heavier and metal. Chains and padlock, I think. But they're tight.

“He's awake” The pacing man declares, his voice deeper than I imagined, especially since he's clearly so nervous. He was probably alerted by the rattling of chains. The other man doesn't seem rattled, still sharpening his knives but this time it feels like it's directed at me. A warning. I ignore it, and start talking.

“Yeah.” As soon as I open my mouth I realize it was full of blood, and I'm lucky I didn't choke on it. “I'm awake.” And I'm not sure why, I'm not sure why I'm still alive. “What do you want?”

“Shut up!” The highly strung one yells at me, and I'd laugh if it wasn't so painful. I'm being kept alive for a reason, and it's not so they can interrogate me, that much is clear.

“So you're just the hired monkeys, huh?” That earns me a slap across the face, and I use the opportunity to spit blood at where I assume the assault came from, my vision still too dark to see for sure. 

What I do see is myself at 12 years old; a scrawny little boy. For years I took the name calling and ritual humiliation without any retaliation. When I did lash out, I was the one who got into trouble. Dad was too tired to give me a lecture, just silent disapproval. I got into a lot more fights after that.

It's not a fair fight now though. It never is. And I laugh, because I know that pisses them off more. I laugh through the pain, a skill I learned long ago. It doesn't make it hurt any less, if anything, it hurts more, but I take it because I have no choice. 

Pain isn't the worst kind of hurt. I remember as a kid, all those fights I got into and the worst thing was one disappointed look from my father, or worse, mom. Mom was so sick, for so long, and so to get a telling off from her just made me feel horrible. But I couldn't help it. I tried to stay out of trouble, for her sake, but trouble always found me. 

My mind keeps drifting to the past. Well, there's nowhere else for it to go at the moment. If these guys knew anything, they'd be trying to get me to talk, but they're not allowed to know what I know. Clearly they're waiting for someone more important, which means so am I. 

Unfortunately, the way they pass time is to inflict pain, for sport. The sound of the guy's knives being sharpened gets closer, until it's the barely audible slicing of flesh as it cuts through my left forearm, not too deep, just a warning, just a display of power. I hate feeling powerless, and it quickly morphs into anger, but I can't lash out now so I retreat to the past with memories that hurt far worse than physical pain.

After mom died, I starting looking for fights. They weren't hard to find. School was rife with bullies. Some of it went deeper. I learned to look closer. I saw when a bully was just copying what they saw at home, when abuse was learned. I tried to make the teachers see too, the police. I shouted, I screamed. Most of the time nobody would listen. 

I couldn't stop the cycle of the abuse, but I could absorb it. If kids thought it was cool to fight, I'd give them a fight. All I cared about is protecting others, I didn't care if I got beaten in the process. I wanted to show them, show everybody, that fighting wasn't big or clever. It was amusing how many kids threw up after they'd gotten my face all bloody, heard the crunch of bone.

Ray was always the one to patch me up, afterward. Dad was too lost in grief, and Jenny was too young. She'd cry whenever she saw my face, but I'd tell her that it didn't hurt and she'd give me a hug. She saw the real pain I was in. We all missed mom, but I could never admit it. 

Ray was the one who taught me to fight. He taught me to defend myself, but I never really believed there was anything worth defending. I let the bruises fade for the sake of my family, but I never stopped seeing the injustice, and I never learned how to stop wanting to fight, not without copious amounts of alcohol. 

I could really use a drink right now, but instead I get another slap to the face.

“Wake up!” The guy is terrified. “Hey, wake up.” I'm guessing he'll be in trouble if their boss arrives and finds me half-dead. 

“Why should I?” I have to cough to clear the blood from my throat, again. “I'm tempted to let myself bleed out right here. I don't think you'd know how to stop it, would you?”

“James!” The guy calls out, foolishly giving me the other guy's name. I'm not prepared for the same knife that was slicing my skin moments earlier to be thrust into the nervous man's neck, but I hear everything as he splutters his last breath. I feel helpless, but I can't let it show.

“Thanks.” I smile, feeling sick. “He was starting to get on my nerves.” The other guy doesn't laugh, but he's stopped inflicting pain on me for no reason. Now, we're both waiting for who's in charge, and it just might be the boredom that kills me instead.


	4. Always a Bigger Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan learns that Eliza has a boss. And that gives him a purpose.

I'm not sure if it's the boredom or the bloodloss, but I keep drifting in and out of consciousness. It probably should be harder to sleep with a dead guy just a few feet away from me, but I've accepted the situation, catching up on rest that has evaded me for years. 

The blood loss must be bad, because I'm woken just so silent killer can give me a sip of juice from a juice box. 

“Got any wine?” I ask, squinting to try and make out my captor's features in the darkness. I'd like to imagine I got a smile out of him, but I doubt it. I sip from the straw pressed to my lips, wincing at the sweetness but it dilutes the blood in my mouth. 

An uncomfortable silence fills the air again. I'm tempted just to say “thanks” just for the sound of it, but the word dies in my throat, and I let my eyes fall closed again. Sleepy.

When I open my eyes again, it's too bright. I have to keep them closed, until my eyes adjust, making out the shape of an old lantern, being held by... 

“Eliza.” My eyes snap open, blinking a few times to clear the sweat and dried blood that seems to have crusted over. She stays silent, opening a black leather bag that she brought with her. I'm regretting the lighting now, as she opens the bag and lays out her instruments of torture. Still, something else catches my attention.

I finally get to look at the man who had his throat slashed, to put a face to the anxious voice that was clearly not cut out for this work. His eyes are still open, whited over. The blood puddle has congealed. I should be able to see the man, but all I can see is the time that has passed. 

“Hey, that wasn't me.” I joke, but Eliza doesn't smile either. Nobody seems to be bothered by that man's death, and that bothers me. “Did he have a name?” Stupid question.

“Everybody has a name, Mr. Hardy.” Eliza makes a point of using mine, leaning over to check my pulse, her nails digging into my neck, distracting me. 

“And I'm guessing Eliza isn't your real one.” Everything about her is so carefully put together, manufactured. She's a creation, but one that she controls. If Eliza is her name, it's one that she's chosen, but it's impossible to read her reaction. She raised an eyebrow, I saw it, but I can't decipher it. I can't read her like I read most people.

“Guessing is all you have, isn't it?” She stops unpacking to look at me, as if seeing through me. “You have no proof, just a gut instinct.” It's not a question. There's no smile on her face, but I can hear the gloating tone in her voice. “What is it you think you know?”

“I know this is bigger than anything I've ever imagined. Bigger than Joe Carroll's following. He had followers, you have employees.” I should stop talking, but I can't seem to help myself. “I know you had at least one Agent in your pocket. Campbell's dead now. Killed her myself.” I blink, surprised at that admission, scared at how easily it came out. It sounded like I was bragging. 

“No, I...” That bitch! I realize, it wasn't her nails digging into my neck. Not just her nails. I see the spent syringe in her hand. Too late. “What? … what did...?”

“Just a little sodium thiopental.” I hear the words, but I struggle to understand them, exhaustion taking over. I've already slept more than I have in weeks, but I can't stay awake. “Just a little. You might be getting more later.”

“The execution drug?” I flash back to Joe's execution. The three drug system. I can remember watching as the sodium thiopental, the pancuronium bromide and the potassium chloride was injected into his system. Unconsciousness, paralysis and finally, the heart stops. But that didn't stop the spasms, or the pain. 

“It seems fitting, don't you think?” Now there's a slight smile, almost robotic. 

“I am NOT like him.” There's panic in my voice, I can hear it, even though I don't feel it. I don't feel anything, much. That makes it easier for me to tug against the chains, tugging so hard that sweat or blood (I'm not sure which) acts as a lubricant. I could yank my hand out, but the drug takes hold and I fall asleep before I can escape. 

I wasn't expecting to wake up, and I can barely open my eyes but that doesn't matter because I can hear. I'm not sure what I can hear, at first. All I know is that it's important. It's the sound of Eliza talking, but when I am able to open my eyes enough just to peek, I realize she's not talking to the guy who held me hostage, no, he's still sharpening his knives, standing guard. She's not talking to the corpse either. Eliza is on the phone. 

“No Sir. It is him.” I wish I could hear who was on the other end of that line. “What are your orders?” There's no indication on her face as to what the orders could be, but if they had any sense it would be to put me to death. There's no way I can rest knowing that this organization is helping the rich literally get away with murder. As long as I'm alive, I will do all I can to find out who is in charge and to make their empire come crashing down. “Understood, Sir.”

As Eliza approaches me, I fake unconsciousness. She gets too close, and I headbutt her so hard she passes out. I stand, still chained to the chair, turning quickly so it is stabbed by the guard's knife after he's thrown it. When he comes to get it back, I smash the chair into him. Again and again until it breaks, and I can step out of the chains. I pick up his knife, and stab him in the throat. 

He's the one who takes the knife out, covering me with arterial bloodspray. I'm the only one left standing. I'm the one in charge now. And I'm going to get some answers.


	5. He Who Fights Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How far will Ryan go to get the answers he wants? And what happens when the answer is not what he expected?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes abuse, torture and sexual assault.

I make sure Eliza is tied up with my bloody chains and duct tape, tied to a sturdy water pipe before I take a look around and freshen up, as much as I can while in this place. I manage to find a light, which lights up the whole building: an empty warehouse. This bloody mess is just a speck of blood in the corner.

I could run. Well, I could stumble out of this place, find somewhere to hide while I patch myself up, but that doesn't seem an option. I'd always come back to this fight, and there's an opportunity now to get information which could help me win it. 

So, I use duct tape to cover up my wounds, where the bullet grazed my shoulder, where the man cut my arm. “The man.” I don't even know his name, beyond the Jack that the dead guy let slip. I'll get to him in a moment, but first I check the killer's pockets. There's nothing apart from $20 in his back pocket, which is now unusable. I cover him with a white sheet, stained with engine grease, watching as the sheet soaks up the blood, turning it crimson.

I shudder, shaking myself out of this... haze, turning my attention to the other corpse in the room. This guy clearly wasn't a professional. His wallet has his driver's license. “Jared Phillips” from Virginia. He's only 25 years old. I'm about to cover him in another sheet, when I get another idea. I put on some work gloves and drag both bodies to where Eliza will see them, when she wakes. 

I take a look at the bag Eliza brought with her, but realize that I want her to be awake when she sees me unpacking them, so I place them back in the back. I can't think this through too much.

Yelling at Eliza doesn't work, so in the end I slap her, again, and again, harder each time. There's a visible bruise on her cheek by the time she starts to stir. 

“Hey, you're awake.” I say, through a pained grin, forcing my tone to be light. “Y'know, I didn't know my head was that hard. I hope it was just an impact thing and not a pain thing, because I plan on putting you through a lot more of that. Unless, you start talking.”

“Never.” I can see the determination in her eyes, and a little bit of the hope fades from mine.

“Never is a long time, but I don't have anywhere else to be.” The truth of that statement stings, but it's a familiar pain, and it's a necessary one. “I have all the time in the world. Minutes, hours, days, weeks... not sure if I could keep you alive for months, but we'll cross that bridge when he come to it, right?” I bend down, lowering myself to look at her from her eye-level. Still, nothing. 

“Okay.” It's not, but I accept the situation, and I know what I have to do. “Well, I could give you some of the same drugs you gave me, but one slip and this could all be over before it begins, and we don't want that, do we?”

“You may as well just kill me, because I'm never going to talk.” She vows, but I can see the fear reflected in her eyes. I think it's because she can see the fear in mine. 

“Death is too easy, believe me.” I'm aware that I'm doing it again. I idolize death, whilst protecting the lives of others. I know how painful life is. I'm not sure if that pain disappears on the point of death, but I've stopped feeling enough times to wonder if I'm already dead. I feel everything and nothing at all. 

“You don't have a plan.” She has a point.

“No. I have an objective. My only objective is to get you to tell me all about your little business.”

“Little?” She smiles, smirking. She knows I have no idea of the scale of her operation. I'm not sure if Agent Campbell working for her was an anomaly, or if they have other Agents in their pocket. I'm not sure how high up the corruption goes. All I know is that I have to fight it, and if I fail the fight, my death has to expose it. Once exposed, I have to believe it will be defeated. 

“When I'm through with you, you'll be bleeding information.” I'm angered now, determined to see justice done. “Who are you working for?”

“The man I work for doesn't exist.” I can tell that's an honest answer, even if it's not one I want to hear.

“But there is a man in charge.” Her silence confirms that. “And what exactly is he in charge of?” Again, silence. “I... er... I broke up your human trafficking ring, by the way. Where were they going? What were you going to do with them? Sex? Torture?” I'm only imagining the worst, but the possibilities are flooding my mind. “I need specifics.”

“You're not going to get them from me.” Eliza looks convinced of that.

“How many people have told you that?” I ask, my voice low. “And how many people have you made talk?”

“All of them.” Her pride forces her to answer. “But you're not me.”

I want to reply that I'm not, I'm not like her. The words die in my throat, replaced with “I can learn.” 

This isn't me. This is her. It's her bag. Her instruments of torture. I'm giving her a similar speech to what she probably would have given me, to intimidate me. But she didn't get the chance, and now it's my turn. 

“A picana?” I ask incredulously. “Were you really going to use that on me? Or was this just to scare me? It's a two man job, but I guess you didn't count on your goons being dead. Your heart would... probably last longer than mine. Do you want to see if I can operate it by myself? This could be fun, don't you think? Isn't that the idea?” I'm looking to her for answers.

“Is the idea for you to have fun?” There's fear in Eliza's voice, but nothing compared to how scared I am. This isn't fun. It's displaced fear. I don't want to do this. But I have to. And she has to watch.

“Electricity is the least messy form of torture.” I tell her, while setting up the battery and the jump leads. “Unless you soil yourself. That's pretty gross.” She swallows hard, but still stays silent. I think I'm sweating more than she is, but that doesn't stop me. Just a small shock, just to let her know I'm not bluffing.

5000 volts. But the current is low enough not to cause any long term damage, just inflict pain, which she handles with a small whimper. So I slowly increase the voltage, switching it off to give her time to confess, but she doesn't and I'm forced to turn it on again. It's not until the voltage is 15000 volts that I'm the one who admits defeat.

“Okay, so, that one didn't work. But there's plenty more toys in your bag. Any preference? I'll let you pick. Oh, maybe I'll use the icepick!” I know there's one in the bag, so I rummage until I find it, making sure she sees. “Y'know, I watched one of Joe's followers stab herself through the eye with one of these things. Impressive, huh?”

“Go to Hell!” Eliza replies, still whimpering slightly. I try not to let her words bother me. 

“I thought it was impressive. Takes a lot of willpower. Most of us have an instinct, makes it harder for us to hurt ourselves. Our body doesn't want to inflict pain upon itself. There's not that physical barrier which prevents us from hurting others, though. For most people, that's empathy. But me? I have curiosity. How deep do you think I could push this pick through your eye, before it would do irreparable damage?”

I hold it so close to her eye, with both hands, but it's still obvious they're shaking. Eliza is trying to keep her eyes open, to not look away. She's so still, and I can't tell if it's because she's afraid or if she's challenging me. 

“You're not going to do it.” Eliza tells me, but I still can't decipher her tone. “You need me. You can't risk breaking me.”

“You're already broken.” I say, too quickly. Is that what I'm telling myself to make this easier? She must be broken, to have done the things she's done. But then, I must be broken too. It doesn't matter. I'm doing this so others don't get broken. Others like the people at the docks. “But I'm going to break you more. Until everything you know spills out of you.”

“I know that you're going to lose.” She smiles, and I lose it, pushing that ice pick just a few millimeters forward. It's so sharp, it slices through her eye easily. She screams, her head moving, pushing it in deeper, making the hole wider. I pull it out as soon as I can, cursing. Throwing the ice pick across the warehouse, hearing it clatter, makes me feel so small. I could scream, shout, but I don't.

Eliza has passed out, but she's still breathing. Her eye is oozing white fluid. I tear a strip of cloth off the white sheets, using it to create a bandanna which covers her fucked up eye. She needs to get to a hospital, we probably both do, but that doesn't seem an option. It's getting harder to see the options. 

I'm exhausted, but I keep watch over Eliza, as she starts to stir in her sleep. I'm not sure if it's the pain sinking in, or a nightmare, but I catch myself empathizing with her and force myself to stop. When she wakes with a start, her one good eye opening so quickly, then closing again in pain, I greet her with a smile. 

“Good. You're not dead. Not yet, anyway.” I toss her a bottle of water, even though her hands are tied to the pipe. She winces as it hits her chest, and I wonder if the electricity did more damage than I intended. But it doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is that I get her to talk. “Thirsty?” 

Eliza doesn't answer, but she turns her head to look at me, silent tears leaking from her visible eye. The white cloth is damp, but not red. 

“I'll take that as a yes.” I walk over, picking up the bottle. I unscrew the cap slowly, holding it to her lips as I tilt it. She swallows greedily, but soon begins to choke, and I let her, keeping the bottle at an unrelenting angle as she splutters, gasping for air once the water is gone, soaking her blouse. 

She flinches under my stare, and then I realize. 

It's the fear in her eyes that pushes me. Just a hunch, but it's confirmed when I begin to unbutton her blouse.

“Please. Don't.” Those words coming from her almost break me. It's not an act. She's begging me, reverting back to a history I can't even imagine. I can, but I don't want to. No wonder she acts so tough and composed. She works hard to be in control. Now, I'm taking that from her. Again. 

I hope she doesn't see me. I'm forcing her to relive a trauma, and I hope she sees the memory and not the man I am. 

“Just say the words and I'll stop.” I'm begging as much as she is, but she's sobbing too hard to speak as I kiss her throat, biting hard enough to leave a mark. “Please.”

“I can't.” She sounds so young, so scared and I'm crying too, but...

“I can't stop until you give me something else to chase.” At this moment, I'd take a false lead, anything, but she gives me nothing, so I keep unbuttoning her blouse, cupping her breast. “Anything. An address. The name of your boss. Anything.” I beg, not wanting to take this any further, but I will if I have to. 

Rape isn't about sex, it's about power. 

Is that who I am? Am I a rapist? Would I do that, to put the power back in the hands of the good guys?

“Ryan!” Speaking of good guys, that's Tyson's voice. Has it been seven days already? I lost track of time. “Yeah, I got your email. I thought you were dead, man!”

“I'm sorry, but...”

“It's okay. You soon will be.” I turn around, to see Tyson pointing a gun at me. And then I realize, the email I sent him didn't have my location. Eliza must have given it him. He's her boss.


	6. Dead Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, the person that you’d take a bullet for is behind the trigger. Sometimes, the monster that you're hunting can be found in a mirror.

My mind is shattered, trying to piece all the information together but it can't. Tyson is my friend, and he's one of the good guys.

“Oh Ryan.” He laughs, making me realize I said that out loud. “Notions of good and bad, they're really outdated, my friend. You should move with the times.”

“How? How could you do this?” I'm still not sure what /this/ is, but I know it's a betrayal of everything we stood for as Agents. “You fought hard to stop the bad guys, why would you...”

“Look at yourself, Ryan.” Tyson tells me, his voice so calm. “You have got to stop using the words good and bad. I reallly don't think you're in any position to judge.” He nods to Eliza, rushing over to her, his gun still trained on me. “Let her go, Ryan.” He turns his attention to her, but I'm too mesmerized to try and take the gun from him. “Eliza? It's okay. I'm here now. The bad man can't hurt you any more.”

“Ty.” I'm lost, but I do as I'm told, unfastening Eliza's chains. Eliza falls over, still unconscious, but Tyson is there to catch her. He seems to genuinely care about her.

“I should make you suffer for what you've done to her.” He's pissed at me, but he's lowered his gun to attend to her. I should be grateful for that. I should exploit that. Yet I can't. 

“What about the two dead guys rotting on the floor? Or don't you care about them?” 

“I didn't know them.” And that's what stops him from caring? Life only matters if we're familiar with it? That doesn't seem right. 

“All life matters.” And yet I took it? I didn't have a choice, right? “He killed Jared Phillips, so I killed him. It was self-defense.” I'm explaining myself, why? Do I want Tyson to forgive me? Do I need to rationalize it to myself? 

“That's adorable.” Tyson laughs. “Y'know, for a guy so broken about this, you keep doing it. Are you sure Joe isn't right? You like to kill, and you're just looking for an excuse.” Tyson is my best friend. He knows how to push my buttons. 

“I'm not like him.” I'm not sure how many more times I can say that. You say something enough and it starts to lose all meaning. “I kill to protect. Everything I've done...”

“Everything?” Tyson removes the makeshift bandage from Eliza's eye. Even with her eyelids closed, you can see the fluid leaking from it, the concave where the skin sags in. “You're gonna be okay, doll.” He assures her. “We have Doctors than can fix you up.”

“You can't fix her.” There's things you can't fix, flaws that seem... fixed. “Whether it's learned behavior or inherent from birth, she's a danger to others.”

“Ryan, buddy.” I want to scream at Tyson for calling me that, but he is my friend. “You're talking about my best employee.” And there's that strangled sort of noise coming from me, again. 

“It doesn't make sense.” I can't make it make sense. Not this time. I have spent my entire career getting inside the heads of serial killers, their unique pathology which allows them to kill, that drives them to it. I look at Tyson, and all I can see is my friend.

I see the guy who stood by me when the rest of the bureau thought I was crazy; the guy who always had my back, who saved my life countless times out in the field; the guy who brought me soup when I was sick, and stole back the files I'd stolen from work. I remember him as a wingman, a drinking buddy, who made sure I got home safely if I drank too much. They're memories, and memories are subjective but they're my reality. 

“I'm still the same guy, Ryan.”

“No, you're not.” How could he be? “The Tyson Hernandez I know, he's a good man. He protects people. How can he... run an organization that uses them like that?”

“Because it's /organized/, Ryan.” He's looking at me with almost pity in his eyes. Like he's trying to explain the concept of death to a child. “You're on the wrong side of the battle, my friend. You're always going to lose against the darkness of human nature.”

“But you fought the fight and you won. You took down the bad guys.”

“And what did it cost me, huh?” Tyson asks, and I never really thought about the toll before. “It cost me my life. Everything within my life. My friends, my work, my possessions. Sure, I wasn't dead but I could never go back to the life I had and yeah, that might have been worth it, if it had worked.”

“What? What do you mean?” I'm confused, perpetually, but he looks to Eliza as if she is his personal savior 

“Sure, I took down the bosses but even worse people took their place. You can't stop crime, and if you try it just makes the criminals tougher, smarter. Survival of the most ruthless. Y'see, sleeping beauty here was sent to kill me, and she found me and she was gonna, she could have done, but I could see she wasn't living up to her potential.

Her new bosses were... they were scum, Ryan, they really were. You'd have killed them.” I'm about to interrupt when he pre-empts me. “In self-defense, of course. But that's the kind of guys they were. Real sadists. They got off on it. Ruled by fear. It was a shambles, really. A gang, not an organization. Not until dollface here took control. She took the reins, and steered everything to a much more... sensible course.”

“Sensible?” That's a strange word. There are so many senses. And they counteract eachother. Crime can be calculated, but that doesn't make it any more palatable. It should offend the senses, but Tyson saw it as a business opportunity? A hobby? A pet project. Eliza? “Does that make you Professor Higgins?”

“Oh, nothing about this is “fair”, Ryan. That's the whole point. I gave my life to stopping crime, but it can not be stopped. So, I chose to control it instead. There will always be a market for violence.”

“A market involves a price, and you can't put a price on a human life. You shouldn't.”

“You think I sold out for money?” He sighs, as though he's disappointed in me. “You should know me better than that, Ryan. We're not that different. Only difference is that I embrace it. I like being in control. I like having the power in death that I never had in life on the job. I make the rules, now. Just like you.”

“What you're doing is wrong!” 

“And what you did isn't?” Tyson caresses Eliza's face. She's still unconscious. I know I hurt her, but I don't want to believe it was me. But it was. I have to face that. I looked for Joe, but even he's abandoned me. I did what I thought I had to do. That's the excuse of most criminals. But I cling to the fact I didn't enjoy it. “You did this so you could have answers? Well, what good did it do? You're gonna die, and it's not going to change anything.”

“Are you going to be the one to kill me?” I want to know, still finding it hard to accept because Tyson is my friend. If he kills me, I deserve it because I should have been the one to stop him. I should have seen what was happening to him. Being dead can destroy the soul. 

“Well, I was going to let Eliza do it, but I don't think she's capable right now.” He glares at me, making me feel guilty. Which I am. “Seems like I'll be the one pulling the trigger, but I think she deserves to watch.” I look down, silently agreeing. I deserve to be punished for my sins, and I've been avoiding death for a long time. The fact that it will come from a friend, that makes it hurt more than the death I seem to crave. 

“You can kill me, but it won't change the fact that what you're doing is wrong. There are good people out there, and sooner or later they'll find out what you're doing, and they'll put a stop to it.” I have to believe that justice will prevail. Even after my death. 

“You mean people like Crawford?” Tyson chuckles, shaking his head when my eyes open wide in shock. “You know, you really should change your password, Ryan. It's been over 10 years, and she dumped you man. Time to move on.” I screwed up. “But it let me get into your account. I saw everyone that your email would go out to. Added a little something extra of my own. It's going to throw the FBI into chaos.” He laughs, giddy at the thought, whilst I can feel the color drain from my face. “Now do you see? You try to save people, but all you do is make things worse.”

“No... I...” My voice is so small, I can barely even hear it. It's like the entire world is muted. Maybe I'm dead already. 

“No, Ryan. You brought this on yourself. You died for no reason, and the worst thing, I'll have my boys come and clear this place up and dump you somewhere the cops will find you. Everyone you care about it gonna know you lied, but they're not going to know why. You're gonna be seen as the bad guy, because they don't see us at all.” I can't accept it's going to end like that, but I'm powerless to stop it.

“Come on, Eliza baby.” Tyson strokes her cheek, and her eyelids finally flutter open. Tyson doesn't flinch, even when he sees how bad her eye is. And when she sees him, she smiles. “There's something I want you to see, and then I'm getting you out of here.” I can't go down without a fight, so I try to take the gun from Tyson, but my heart's not in it. He's my friend. I can't believe he's the enemy.

But he is. And the fact he uses the butt of the gun against my head should tell me that, yet I still feel as though I brought this on myself. I'm not even sure if I try to defend myself as he keeps hitting, smashing the gun into my skull until I fall to the floor, unable to see for the blood. I roll onto my back, as everything goes dark.

I can hear him drag Eliza out, and I reach out to him.

“Ty.”

“Wow. You really are hard to kill, aren't you, buddy?” His voice sounds broken, and I wonder if he's crying for me, but I doubt it. “You should just give it up already. Give in.” I hear the sound of a gun, cocking. “Rest in peace, Ryan.” I hear the gunshot, and I hear the sound of the impact, as it shatters my pacemaker. Then, I feel the pain.

Then... nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am working on Season 4b but it will be in script format. It might take a while, but I need to tell this story and I'm grateful to AO3 for giving me a platform in which to tell it, and I appreciate anybody who takes the time to read it.


End file.
